<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Milk and Red by Daastan_Go</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740294">Milk and Red</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daastan_Go/pseuds/Daastan_Go'>Daastan_Go</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Naruto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brotherhood, Brothers, Drama, Family, Friendship, Love, Lust, Military, Multi, Mystery, Sex, Suspense, Uchiha Massacre, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:33:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,264</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28740294</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daastan_Go/pseuds/Daastan_Go</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tasked with a burden to kill the precocious young Uchiha, Sai flounders between duty and memory.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: Naruto is Kishimoto's property. I'm not making any money from this story.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1</strong>
</p><p># # # # # #</p><p>Roots got deep, caused the forest to stand tall, breast storm. Man fell. Trees stood. Holy as Time: roots made the difference, made men.</p><p>The sword stuck between the jaws, teeth locating grip, chinked like old keys in the pocket . . . a mouth the fat priest could not close. When the good end stuck out the back, it was red everywhere, a hue he was as familiar as a babe was with milk; but he had not tasted milk in years . . .</p><p>His garments, bedecked with shiny religious accoutrements, could not conceal the belly’s distension; and in agony, on the knees without a prayer in mouth, he thrust it forward, still trying his hardest to make the teeth meet, eyes rotating about extremities, limbs tightening in convulsions; and he perished, mouth wide as hooked fish’s . . . even after he had pulled the sword out.</p><p>This was it. This was done. A blot on the picture ended what was real . . . to the holy man. Yet the tongue tingled, a mark he wished he could chop off, cast from himself—<em>forget</em>. Up above, a blackness had come; and bedevilled by a willful night, stilly as morning beasts whilst shades drew on, he dreamt . . . little—too little. There was milk and there was red . . . one long drop, shiny about the brother’s mouth, that went drip drip drip, pink after a lost red.</p><p>Hallowed eyes, haunted vision—dressed with consummate grace, his night had fallen to a disquieting despair, into leaves by the forest’s feet, mellow fruits on boughs bountiful that trembled against summer’s beat. <em>Leaf</em> . . .</p><p>Yet he saw . . . a nacreous visage against a morn’s fervour.</p><p>
  <em>I miss . . . thee, darling brother . . . </em>
</p><p># # # # # #</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>2</strong>
</p><p># # # # # #</p><p>Night grew grey towards the dawn and danger had begun. In tow at the end of the leash, the nerves burnt like a white hot flame. You could never say <em>no</em>. Leaf was all—fire, a primordial call. A mere glimpse of it could send their emotions into overdrive.</p><p>A misstep would only take a little boy so far . . . a gush of anger was to be banked up against resolve; roots stayed under; and often strangled by its own solemnity, they burnt out. The graves (of boys) stood like many teeth, constrained into a forest of stone . . . deep in leaves, gone . . .</p><p>The festival was kept up, a lively splurge of reds. Rosed with passion’s caress, women ran about, wearing their hair twisted up into pin-decorated whorls on either side of their heads. Mellowing loins that oozed, yet he had come for another sign . . .</p><p>Another man had strayed far from fire; and into the shadow was his end. He lay enveloped in the skin of a girl . . . one by his feet, bodies glistening against fires; the sheer garments they wore left them as good as naked. He was swift, brain flashing into a white-out with each stroke; three throats, a lot of red, deeper than the jovial nature of the merry-making—not within, but without. He left as a silent man, no more noisy than before.  Now, a tangerine ray of sunlight illuminated the scroll and ink-soaked brush, a shadow of the bird’s cage against it. It was empty . . . he played the ball of his thumb across the rice-paper, a careful task which involved turning the scroll into itself.  </p><p>One soft summer twilight, just fifteen and only lost . . . spring streamlets sailed in milk . . .</p><p>
  <em>It was a long morn, brother . . . do you remember it the way I do? Speak . . . </em>
</p><p># # # # # #</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>3</strong>
</p><p># # # # # #</p><p>As time passed faster than seasons did about all, men’s hearts were to be revitalised toward Leaf. The ones that did not assimilate the love were left without its colour’s grace, for into the shadow lay trouble. A fire’s spilling within the dark no one saw. How sad to be so . . . lonely?</p><p>Yet Leaf’s forgetfulness was easy; a cherished ardour, a transfiguration of spirit, secured inside a bird’s cage that rested upon his table. Light ran about, its imitations a dark grey upon the wall, climbing up and up that his room was bedecked with a prisoner’s anguish—no tears this time. What was the difference . . . ? He had no answer . . . </p><p>In the morning when the sun was up and sky too blue, he had reasoned with the freedom seeker, a large bearded man who specialised in procuring bodies for the medic division—a ghoulish task that lent him an air of untimely mystery.</p><p>Persistent, he fired back in a loud retort, jabbed him in the ribs, expressed his loathing for Leaf’s dastardly mechanisms. The noise from his cracked lips, hemmed in by a patchy beard that was curly and richly red, drew an instant revulsion from him, a reaction he had not anticipated.</p><p>The hand that held the sword moved outwards with a twitch; and in a moment as short as lightning’s arrival, the man’s throat was cut into perfect two, stopping his inevitable words before they could form. He fell back, eyes wider than they were in anger, blood going from him in long robust arcs, vanishing.</p><p>His gorge rose whilst he witnessed the man writhe, a struggle that was inutile . . . meant for little; and there was nothing more humorous than a fat man rolling in mud . . . after some moments, he was no more than tight pumpkin cheeks, besmeared with red and brown, and contorted limbs in the forest’s noise . . .</p><p>A night was upon him, a summer that could not leave; and he sat by the table, the cage wavering upon the wall, fire dancing.</p><p>
  <em>Summers that dripped from thy eyes, lips rubicund, traces in honeyed . . . white. A little of you was in the eyes, more of you in the dream’s skies.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brother . . . O’, brother . . . where are we now?</em>
</p><p># # # # # #</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>4</strong>
</p><p># # # # # #</p><p>There was something of a forest about him, an odour of summer he spread far and wide. Befouled by tears, men broke to pieces; so from roots’ keep, he never strayed far. His spirit entire, a calm that sat upon his face.</p><p>When dusk arrived and a quick sheen from the brightest waters vanished, he created curved forms from scrolls that he was meant to send back to Leaf; but the nights were lonely, stains that grew on walls without a passion rubescent and sharp.  </p><p>The spirit that slept stayed slumbering, in its place the flesh awakening. An infuriate impulse, like a tide, setting in from a place that was sweeter than Leaf’s aroma; and it bore down every reason before it . . . and images would cross his eyes . . . a youthful shape compressed in a rich Kimono, bosom bountiful, as the bursting leaves contain spring’s blossoming buds.</p><p>Leaf’s Shinobi, he inspired sanguinary, blood on one side; but this was the meal he had not learnt to taste. His room, frowsty, stuffed with sighs, hand going to squeeze the object that ached and oozed signs thick as sugary syrups. Soon, his palm was slick and slimy, grip spiraling up and down the organ engorged with blood, inmost regions between the thighs clammy.  </p><p>The state would not pass; and how he wished to slip the excited organ into a tight place, expel the fluids in a fever haste . . . <em>right</em> between the lips whose rim was red as rivers choked up with war’s passing; and then it was done, a fervour that from him was on a run, hand coated with long strips of mellow whites.</p><p>And when he looked about, the room was emptier than before . . .</p><p>
  <em>You’d shed deciduous teeth some years back, yet I see blood in your mouth! The milk is pink, but you’re young, with cheeks pinker than the drink. Brother, tell me what you see . . . I will listen . . . </em>
</p><p># # # # # #</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>